


Black and White and Red All Over

by Sandoz (Sandoz_Iscariot17)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandoz_Iscariot17/pseuds/Sandoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up to find your partner's mug shot on the front page--Dan's had better mornings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black and White and Red All Over

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, Brancher. Year Written: 2009.

Restlessness woke Dan at dawn. He sat up, blurry-eyed and soft-headed, with a gnawing hunger for breakfast. He then had a bright idea that blew away the cobwebs, one of his quick bursts of inspiration that was, this time, more practical than building a helicopter and painting a giant crescent moon on it. He'd make Laurie breakfast in bed. The fantasy deepened as he dressed: he would surprise her with a tray carrying hot eggs and bacon and the early edition, and she'd be charmed by a handsome smile that wasn't at all desperate or foolish. He stepped outside, rubbing his hands together in the gray, late October morning, and walked to the newspaper box at the end of the street with a boyish stride.

The warm feeling in his chest evaporated when he saw the headline staring at him behind the glass. He fumbled for the change in his coat pocket, pennies flying and spinning into the gutter, and pulled the handle. It was real and physical and heavy in his hands.

"No. Oh no." At the sound of his own voice the old survival instinct kicked in, forcing him to slide the paper under his arm until he was safely inside his brownstone.

Dan spread the paper flat on the kitchen table, eyes wide with shock and something resembling horror.

 **RORSCHACH REVEALED. DARING ARREST NABS WANTED MURDERER.**

The headline was a scream inside his brain. He scanned the article, absorbing the information as quickly as he could (some if it would lay dormant for days, coming to the surface when Dan least expected it; he'd be in the shower when he realized, _Rorschach shot a cop with my grappling gun_ ). He read the name three times, but the words were meaningless. Walter Joseph Kovacs.

Dan stepped away from the table. For a moment there was only the blankness of shock before the other conflicting emotions seeped into him. He went about the motions, needing to move his feet, do something, and like an automaton he opened the fridge, cracked the eggs over the hot pan, listened to sizzling bacon.

 _You knew it would come to this_ , he told himself. No. He thought Rorschach would die before letting the police take him. The idea of Rorschach on trial—in prison—was absurd, one of the Comedian's bad jokes. Dan knew what he was and what he'd done. He could still remember it: the man standing in this very kitchen, covered in blood and smelling like an abattoir ( _"What's black and white and red all over?" the Comedian ghoulishly sneers_ ). But Rorschach was still alive, and Dan was not ashamed of the relief he felt.

Smoke shook him out of his reverie. He hissed, " _Shit, shit_ ," as he hustled the frying pan to the sink and pushed the shriveled bacon and blackened, inedible eggs into the garbage disposal with a fork. Fingers grazed the hot edge of the frying pan and his lips curled back in an almost-scream, but he swallowed it quickly. What came up was a long, dry heave that made his eyes sting and his hands clutch the edges of the metal sink until they were white-knuckled. The pain passed and he groped for the faucet. Running water made a soothing sound as he took off his glasses to rub his eyelids with the flat of his hand. He splashed his face and willed his heart to slow down.

Strangely enough, the photograph was the last thing Dan noticed, as if his eyes had not permitted him to see. Like a family member called in to identify a body at the morgue, Dan hesitated at first, and then confirmed it: "Yes, that's Rorschach."

He knew, even though it was the first time he has seen Rorschach unmasked. He had touched his face only once in the twelve years they were partners ( _"Hey buddy, I think your nose is broken--"_ ) and it was funny how old, dusty memories could come back after a shock, uncovered and unasked for.

 _Rorschach leans on the Owlship wall for support, a terrible ggghackt sound coming from deep inside him. Blood is running down his throat and he can't breathe. Nite Owl hovers over him in fear._

Rorschach seizes Nite Owl's wrist after he rolls the mask up to the bridge of his damaged nose. His partner has jumped into a yard with a BEWARE OF DOG sign on its fence.

"I'm not—you know I wouldn't do that," he says, tilting Rorschach's head up gently. That calms him. Later, when the damage is assessed and the bleeding stopped, Nite Owl touches the pale, grim chin, his thumb brushing the bloody bottom lip so quickly it might not have happened at all.

"When the time is right, you'll--" Nite Owl stops, surprised he spoke out loud and not even sure what he had been trying to say.

Countless stitched wounds over thousands of nights, but they had never touched each other skin-to-skin, those strange men in costumes. And he'd never seen Rorschach's face.

Dan was unsurprised by Rorschach's ugliness. The jutting cheekbones, the eyes empty and beady with a black ink bruise…a face made for mug shots, with all the softness whittled out. Then a flash of familiarity, a vision of red hair. Suddenly the grainy photograph was in vivid, frightening Technicolor.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered, clutching the newspaper close to his face. "I know you."

He pushed dim memories into the harsh glare of the present. He knew the face from the periphery of his vision. Yes. Sign Man, the prophet of doom from 43rd and 6th. The short, grim ginger in the ragged brown suit. How many times had they stood shoulder to shoulder at that newsstand, Dan deliberately avoiding eye contact as they bought their papers?

He'd been outside Rafael's as Dan helped Laurie into her cab, a ramrod-stiff shape seen through the rain sliding off Dan's umbrella. He'd been lurking outside the cemetery gates when Edward Blake's coffin was rolled out of the hearse. When Dan and Laurie passed by the newsstand on the way to their date with the Knot-Tops, he had felt that intense gaze like a burn on the back of his neck. He turned to look at the doomsayer—

And he looked back.

An echo, Rorschach's rasp: _"Maybe I was keeping eye on you."_

Dan collapsed into a chair. It was one thing for Rorschach to break his locks, lecture him in his basement, and paw though his cabinets like a cat in garbage, but daylight was off-limits. (Outside the Gunga Diner Dan almost hadn't recognized him without the sign, but he had looked over his shoulder at the red hair and scowl for just a moment before walking away and forgetting.) Following him when he was with _Laurie_ was just—hell and damnation.

 _Poor paranoid bastard._ Dan stared at the paper, imagining that face in the crowd watching him. In the Owlship he'd been close to that face, bloody and rough with stubble, his mouth under Dan's glove—

He prickled with unease, unable to fathom Rorschach standing in the bright light of day. Dan knew his height and build and the color of his stubble. He could spot his profile instantly when he was in the trenchcoat and fedora—didn't Rorschach think Dan would recognize a man he'd known for twenty years when he followed him with a goddamn _sign_?

But Dan hadn't. He wasn't Nite Owl anymore. He didn't recognize signs. Couldn't see what was right in front of him until the goddamn _New York Gazette_ announced it, and then it was too late.

 _"When the time is right, you'll--"_

Dan's eyes went wide; his fingers brushed the black print. He thought of Walter Joseph Kovacs' unwavering stare and Rorschach's trembling mouth. Rorschach could have watched him from the shadows and alleys, ducking his head whenever Dan so much as breathed in his direction, but he hadn't. Rorschach couldn't approach him, couldn't lay his fingers on his shoulder or introduce himself like any sane person who didn't wear a mask and throw men down elevator shafts. But he could let Dan see him.

Something tight and hot pressed down on Dan's stomach. How long had Rorschach been shadowing him? He remembered a distant spring morning, standing on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change. His head was in the fucking clouds when a yellow cab's wheel spun over the curb, tires screeching like a murdered animal. A stranger's hand hooked his elbow, jerking him back. He slammed against the man's chest and exhaled his surprise. Had he turned to thank him? Had he been short and ugly and covered with scars that only Dan could recognize?

His pulse quickened as his mind spun. The mug shot stared back at him. Sweat appeared on his brow.

Christ, if only Rorschach had said something. No, that wasn't what Dan wanted. He began wishing stupidly again, conjured desperate what ifs— _the mouth of the alley is just ahead and the Knot-Tops are checking their watches as they wait for him, but he feels that stare and he stops. He walks over to the stranger and places firm hands on his shoulders._

"I know," he says. "I know."

The kitchen was warm and smelled faintly of burned meat. Dan let out a breath; his belly sighed in relief as he released his belt.

 _Rorschach says nothing. Dan's imagination isn't rich enough to envision those lips smiling. But they look at each other and_ understand _and Rorschach isn't in handcuffs, isn't feeling the brutal kick of a policeman's shoe, isn't holding up a black sign in front of flashbulbs—_

He gritted his teeth, disgusted with himself before he even started. It was fucked up, Jesus, he knew it was, but his body was going on without him and if he could just do it--get something _out._

 _Dan inches the door open slowly, buttery light spilling into the hall. His hands ball reflexively into fists when he sees the figure sitting in his kitchen. He doesn't notice the empty bean cans; all he sees is the dark back of a trenchcoat and the uneven tufts of ginger hair rising from it. The man hears the floor creak under Dan's foot and whirls around and Dan's staring into eyes, not inkblots._

Warm fingers unzipped the fly and slipped inside his pants; he pulled it out slowly, tentatively, already half-hard and starting to pant. His free hand slipped over the newspaper, making it rustle.

 _He hasn't seen Rorschach in years but the want is still there, now joined with exhilaration as he grips the man by the lapels and shoves his back against the counter, their faces separated not even by inches. He feels hot breath on his cheek. They don't speak of the Comedian._

Dan stroked and pumped, leaning over the table as his hand moved between his knees. He swirled his thumb over the head, spreading clear pre-come. No gentleness in the motions, though his red, damp face twisted into pleasure. He squeezed his eyes shut. Still not enough.

 _"Buddy, I think your nose is broken," he says softly, reaching out to him even as his partner jerks away. He's not talking but he's making terrible sounds and Nite Owl saw the punch that cracked his face._

Cornering his partner, Nite Owl cups his face and reaches for the edge of the latex. He rolls it up slowly, listening to the hitch in Rorschach's breathing and trying not to wince when he sees the blood running down his face in crimson tributaries. The mask is hiked up an atom too high and he feels a steel grip on his wrist, threatening to twist it.

"I'm not—you know I wouldn't do that," he says, tipping his head back gently. Rorschach lets him go and his breathing stabilizes. The blood is gone; the broken nose heals instantly within the realm of fantasy. Nite Owl pulls off his gloves and leans in close, closer. He doesn't remove his hands from Rorschach's face; they linger on his skin, drifting slowly, bare thumb brushing lips that part in a single word: "Please."

The black blots move frantically in resistance as Nite Owl pulls and exposes skin to light and air. Red, dirty hair. Freckles like flecks of paint on his sharp face. A cut on the forehead and a bruise that turns his eye into a black hole. Colorless eyes that are nothing but black on white, ink on paper.

Flushed and breathless from pulling himself taut, he filled the kitchen with the sounds of skin slapping skin and short gasps for air. His eyes flew open as the fantasy dissolved, and he was looking at the mug shot when he came.

When the feeling returned to his legs he stood and cleaned himself with a yellow dishrag. He needed to go upstairs and change his pants before Laurie ( _oh shit, Laurie_ ) woke up. Drained and empty, Dan brought his hand to his forehead. For a few merciful moments he felt nothing at all. Then the gnawing feeling returned, and it had nothing to do with hunger.

He glanced at his fingers and saw black smudges on the tips, like he'd been fingerprinted (as Rorschach must have been, hours ago, while Dan was sleeping). His red-rimmed eyes fell on the newspaper. In the last throes of his ecstasy Dan's thumb had rubbed across Rorschach's mug shot. His hands were damp. Rorschach's face was now inscrutable, sweat and ink reducing it to a white and black blur.


End file.
